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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"The Marquis of Lossie"


Through dingy dreary Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy,
houseless Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships,
and when they thinned at last, Greenwich rose before them. London
and the parks looked unendurable from this more varied life, more
plentiful air, and above all more abundant space. The very spirit
of freedom seemed to wave his wings about the yacht, fanning full
her sails.
Florimel breathed as if she never could have enough of the sweet
wind; each breath gave her all the boundless region whence it blew;
she gazed as if she would fill her soul with the sparkling gray
of the water, the sun melted blue of the sky, and the incredible
green of the flat shores. For minutes she would be silent, her
parted lips revealing her absorbed delight, then break out in a
volley of questions, now addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried
Davy too, but Davy knew nothing except his duty here. The Thames
was like an unknown eternity to the creature of the Wan Water--
about which, however, he could have told her a thousand things.
Down and down the river they flew, and not until miles and miles of
meadows had come between her and London, not indeed until Gravesend
appeared, did it occur to Florimel that perhaps it might be well
to think by and by of returning.


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